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jane taylor Jun 2016
how i have ached to walk amongst the evergreens
encased by dazzling quaking aspen
in my rocky mountain home

i yearn to fall again while skiing
and catch a wisp of icy sky blue
snow powder crystals
on my tongue
******* feelings
rise and fall
as they melt
and disappear

i long to breathe in your scent
sitting on the peak of wooded ridges
amidst slate colored boulders
sea salt combined with cinnamon
laced with wildflowers
crisply filling my lungs

i hunger to once again
behold again your red rock formations
creating tender hollows
through which timid coral sunsets peer

i crave hiking at dusk
into your jagged emerald forests
and sit wistfully mid the columbine
while darkened sunflowers juxtapose
against the jet black emptiness
enticing the stars
to etch enchanting paintings
on inky cobalt skies

hankering to be at the sundance film festival
coyly peeking into restaurants
covertly spying on the movie stars
on old park city main

itching to experience waiting patiently
for a moose to cross the street
its majesty splashing gingerly
sending chills throughout the galaxy
magnificence abounds

i pine to have memories gently cradle me
like worn out patchwork quilts
warmed by incandescent fires
wrapping me in soft colored canvas
the past craving transformation
by an echo that’s now dim

faintly crying out for
an old familiar artist’s brush
that still lingers
to snag times gone by
and paint the future in

amalgamating the antiquated
with the present
luring in
my destiny

i dream to don my fringed leather jacket
and hear my cowboy boots
fiercely clicking
against charcoal shadowed midnight sidewalks
while i watch the harvest moon

i’m parched too see your autumn chestnut leaves
against the bloodshot auburn sky
as cardinal hues give way to glistening winter
melding into tender spring

your summertime birthing
tingles down my spine
as chartreus aspen leaves
morph to golden bisque
enticing ute country
to blow in
copper colored indian summers
with cherry fragrant wind

yutaahih you were called
by the apaches
their historic essence
somehow ingrained within
my every cell
thirsty to lie enveloped
like a long lost lover
in your rugged western terrain

once having left your presence
i return to you now
my heart flutters
with wild anticipation
to see your precious face again
utah

©2016janetaylor
after a 5 year absence, we are returning to utah at the end of this month
Joliver Sep 2018
When I die
I hope I'll begin to spread roots
As my soul
Is absorbed by the earth
And as I spread
Parts of me will
Begin to reach ever upward
As I begin to form
My canvas of emerald and gold
Everlasting
And forever growing
-
I will not be worried by strife, and
Fire will only serve for
New possibilities
As well as
The potential for growth.
I will become a sight
For others to behold
And feel at peace
Whenever they venture
Through my dappled sunlight
-
When I die
I hope to become more
Than just cold
I love the idea of being buried with a tree seed, and aspens are my favorite type of tree, thus the inspiration for this piece. I would love to be one. Fun fact: aspen groves are not singular trees, but rather one large, interconnected organism
Robert C Howard May 2017
Through an open window, I hear
      the Big Thompson's steady music
drifting up from the valley below.

May breezes and gentle rains
     coax the snow-capped peaks
to surrender their alabaster cloaks
      downslope into gathering streams.

Silhouetted by light from the waxing moon,
      a cinnamon bear lopes along water’s edge,
pauses for a draught and meanders on.

A bull elk newly coifed with velvet antlers
        folds his legs beneath its belly
and kneels into grasses beside a tranquil pond.
        while the Big Thompson rushes on.

Spring beauties, calypso orchids and geraniums  
       shake off their winter's sleep and
dot every vagabond trail and verdant hill
        while fresh new leaves adorn the aspen boughs.

The Big Thompson inexorably presses on
        bound for rendezvous with time and space
and tumbles into the always patient sea.

© 2017 by Robert Charles Howard
Dan Beyer Aug 2018
autumn mist rises
across the glazen waters
through the aspen grove
Robert C Howard Nov 2016
A halo of transfigured light.
     spanned the hills and autumn gold
of scores of aspen groves
     basking in the morning sun.

But what is this thing we call a rainbow?
     For all our science talk of vapor,
refraction and angle of the sun
     we surrender still in willing captivity
to its beauty, mystery and myth.

Rainbows beguile by their fleeting rarity
      as ephemeral as life itself -
temporal blessings suspended in time
      unintended and undeserved,
spectral bridges between here and there -
       between what is and what should be.
jane taylor Apr 2016
as winter acquiesces to the blazing sun
a soothing breeze softly grazes tips of aspen
gently shedding past liaisons
a perfect panacea
allowing wild freedom for summer’s dawn

healing from the ominous night
a flower gingerly releases its grasp
leaning into golden rays of summertime
keenly aware of newfound vulnerability
it yawns into the light

a rousing essence induces
a silhouette of life once thought lost
prodding river’s rigid ice blue crystals
to melt and flow with buoyant wonder
kaleidoscopic-like waves

having weathered near annihilation
a sculptured consciousness remains
painting summer clouds with soft-hued wisdom
all awakens from the dream
and should the cold return once more

the sun will shine again

©2016janetaylor
Jen Dec 2018
If I followed
That path
Discovered;
Where would she lead?

The Aspen leaves
Cover this
Canopy.

Envelop
The forest
Kept.

Fall slow
To the ground,
Forest Found.

Covered Canopy,
Insulated
Incapsulated Wound,
Time heals.
Stu Harley Mar 20
love
foraging
through
your
captive
soul
seek
the
autumn leaves of gold
from
the
aspen trees
Caroline May 30
Sometimes I send my spirit to the hills
And then down to the rippling creek
Now raging from the permeating spring rains.

I have always done this,
Perhaps to let my spirit rest within some other element
That is not myself.

I just exhale her away into the rock, the ridges, the river,
As easy as a breath into the winds of early summer.

And there she lies down, gently,
And becomes these other things;

Things that are not fear, or self-doubt, or a
Racing heart at night wondering if I am,
Perhaps, doing it all wrong.

No, she is now like the fawn that knows only
The scent of fresh grass and the ever-rising prairie sun.

She is like the fluttering of the aspen leaves on the
Highest edges of the cliffs,
Loose and wild,
Careless in the wind, since when they fall, they decompose,
Simply to begin again.

There is a space between my ribs through which she leaves
And the tears on my cheeks then wait to cease as she settles within

The rock, the ridges, the river,

And when I am beat down, hurt, scared,

I look up to the hills and tell myself

Send your spirit

There.
In Nineva, in melted days of yore,
In a very distant verdant realm
Of a shadowy enchanted Moor,
There rolled a nectar stream.

And whoever ever drunk from it
Whilst the sun rained her golden light,
Craved nevermore to drink nor eat
But perpetually dwelt in delight.

Once, upon her banks strolled a couple
Majestically holding each other's hand.
Golden robbed with plush ribbons purple,
All the way from a very far away land

Where dwelleth many a mandrill,
A realm of many a precious stone
And many a verdant rolling hill,
Though creatures there all but forlorn.

King and queen of Merindrill they were,
On a golden quest for perpetual youth
Akin to the luster of many a fiery star
Whose mystery none knows the truth.

Though the stream galloped in gladness,
Though meadow larks chirped in ecstasy,
A roving wind eerily rustled in sadness
As it danced about aspen leaves all sassy.

All birds of evil omen graced the heaven
Whilst darkling clouds blotted heavens' bed
But unto none did it seem a bad omen.
Dyadic ravens perched upon their head.

"Quaff, quaff, oh quaff not from the river,"
Unto the king quoth the first raven.
"In that river deep thou shalt dwell forever,"
Unto the queen quoth the second raven.

"Quaff, quaff, oh quaff not," they didst spoof
At the ravens whilst as quick as drops of rain
Plummeting from earths' eternal dewy roof,
In such haste, they quaffed again, and again.

And 'tis for that reason that all men know
From the ***** of that sweet rollin' river
Did the fanciful couple now as cold as snow
Ever leave, but there dost live forever.



©Kikodinho Edward Alexandros,
Los Angeles, California, USA.
06/Nov/2018.
#Tales Of Nineva  #Fantasy #Adventure

#Merindrill is a realm of darkling woods far away from from the mighty land of Nineva.

Nineva is a magical kingdom in Kiko's legendarium - a miscellany of tales of mystery and macabre like you've never heard of. Tales such as, "The Mystery Of Lenore," "Woods Have Eyes," "The Dwarf Of Nineva," The Novelty Tea ***," "The Witch's Cauldron," "Jazabel The Witch," "The mandrill of Merindrill," among so many others yet to be posted here.
Bruce Levine Aug 2018
Upper East Side
The Hamptons
Aspen, Colorado
The plastic people
Follow each other
Moving in herds
Like cattle to the
Slaughter

Drifting
Floating
Shifting focus
From one charity event
To another
Whatever’s trendy
Whatever’s fashionable
Whatever’s happ’ning
Whatever’s the need
Tainted new artists
Society’s rejects
The film-maker who fits in with
The flavor of the month
The disease or the cause
That captures the moment
Stigmas overlooked
Deformities relieved
By one hyper exertion
By one pseudo good deed

Changing bedrooms
Changing partners
New alliances
Noblesse oblige

Mrs. Astor’s
Four hundred
Reinvented forever
Reinvented with fervor
On the edge
Of hypocrisy
Keeping up with the Jones’s
Maintaining the houses
Paris, Rome, Cote du Jura
Malibu, Palm Beach
Couture fashion
Madison, Rodeo
Worth avenues united
Avenues of the liege

Location, location, location
The right address unspoken
Dinner in the right places
Sporting events to be seen
Three martini luncheons
Halcion evenings
Business is business
Where money’s retrieved

Look to plastic people
For fashionable guidance
No matter the moment
No matter the need
Remember to catch them
While jetting to Santa Barbara
Saint Maarten, San Troupe
San Marco, warp speed
They live in their milieu
Can’t function outside it
Can’t follow a shadow
That others believe

It’s easy to find them
They leave behind footprints
But barely a mem’ry
Or singular creed
Other than finding
The latest in fashion
The latest persona
Or new plastic breed
Kurt Philip Behm Sep 2018
The cry of an eagle floats across a distant peak
  bear tracks visible in the spring thawing snow

Sunlight, spreading its dance upon the land
  the Ponderosa Pine and Aspen in bloom

The glaciers look down smiling the higher you climb
  searching for that redemption never offered below

The wolf trails the hare back inside its snowy den
  the road to all new entry having now been cleared

Permission never asked for, granted, as the music starts
  it’s early May in the Rockies—the January of renewal

In a celebration of new life, flowers wrap the landscape like ribbon
  tying close the promises like good wishes on a Christmas morning

It’s springtime even on the highest peak, and old questions lost of meaning now seem gone away...

Until reborn in the arrival of yet another desperate beginning,
  —holding nothing back

(Columbia Falls, Montana: September, 2003)
Jen Oct 2018
It’s not clear to see-
So, let’s finally go there,
You and me.

Now,
In this present time,
Is this finally happening?

It started as
Something imaginary…

You constantly
Aroused me with
Your intelligence.
Sapiosexual Sublime,
Suggestions and
Stimulating Conversations.

So, hidden in the
Painted Aspen trees
Imprinted on these
Sheets, only present
In Sweetly Torturing Dreams,
When you sneak up quietly,
Behind me,
And let’s just pretend
It’s innocent,
And let’s just barely
Touch,
Our bodies naked
Like lumbered pines,
Your hands warm,
Caressing my thighs,
From behind
Hidden vines
And unspoken
Notions
Needing No Words,
Just motion.

You play with my hair,
Like you said you would,
And in return I
Run my fingers
Through yours,
And just stare assured.

We combine our
Bodies and Minds.
Let’s go there
In real life.
Slow and cognizant,
Connecting underneath
A Blanket drenched
With what started
As “Hello,”
It now reverberates
Out an open window,
Disturbing the neighbors
Below.
Listening to “Kerala” by Bonobo (Music is inspiring)

Inspiration: A combination of real life and imagination

— The End —